


Velika Noč (The Great Night)

by keerawa



Category: Fantasia (1940)
Genre: Death Rituals, Dream Vision of the Peasant Lad, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, POV Child, Religion, Spirits, Русалка | нимфа | nimfa | Rusalka (Slavic Mythology & Folklore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:59:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: Vratislav and his mama leave a candle in the window to light father's way home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fells/gifts).



Mama shook Vratislav awake from his nap. 

“It’s almost time to go, dear heart,” she said. 

He nodded sleepily and dressed in his warmest clothes. The snow had melted from the low meadows, but it was still cold, the sheep in their full winter fleece. He had helped the big boys gather them in this morning. It was dangerous for sheep to be out on the _Velika Noč_. The demons might eat them.

Home was warm, full of the scent of roasting meat and baking bread. They walked down the road to the cemetery, part of a crowd of townsfolk all heading the same way. He was tired, but he didn’t ask mama to pick him up. Her arms were full, carrying a big basket of food. 

They cleaned tato’s gravestone with cloths wet from the holy spring, and helped Uncle Vaclav and the cousins with several others. Each stone in the graveyard had at least one family member there, to clean their stone, speak their name, and leave an offering of a hard-boiled egg. Once the ancestors had been properly invited, everyone sat down on blankets to share food with friends, family, and neighbors. Everyone wanted a slice of mama’s nut roll – she roasted the nuts ahead of time, to make them taste of salt and sweet at the same time. That part was a secret. Vratislav had no siostras, so mama had taught the family recipe to him; he wasn’t to tell anyone, ever, not until he had a family of his own someday.

There was singing, and drinking, and stories. Mama, flush with vodka, told story after story about Vratislav’s tato. He’d heard them all before, a hundred times, but he would always ask to hear them again.

“Radivoj was a strong man, and a kind one. He used his strength to protect others,” she said. “You’re like that, too, little one. A brave sheep dog, not a wolf.”

As the shadows grew longer, people began picking up the remnants of their meal and heading home. It was Vratislav’s job to leave a trail of breadcrumbs from tato’s grave back to their home, so he could find them tonight.

Once they arrived, mama latched the door and began to bustle around, preparing the altar as the church bell rang. Last year he had thought this part was exciting, tato’s photo and medals and gusle all laid out for him to look at and touch. But this year – this year he realized that mama was afraid.

“Is tato coming?” he asked her.

She paused, and then nodded fiercely.

“I tried to stay up to see him, last year. The spirits are meant to come at sundown. But I fell asleep, and he did not come.”

“Light the candle,” she told him, “and then you can come sit in my lap.”

Vratislav picked the very best white beeswax candle out of the drawer, lit it from the hearth fire, and placed it in the window sill's candle holder they had always used to light tato’s way home. He climbed up into mama’s lap, and she hugged him tight.

Outside the window, the last rays of the sun slipped from the mountainside, leaving the village to the night. The wind rose; it sounded almost like a distant fiddle. 

“Radivoj was a soldier,” mama whispered, “and all soldiers must first answer Chernabog’s call on the _Velika Noč_. So you and I, we will sit here and we will remember your tato. I will teach you to play the gusle, and we will sing his favorite songs, and we will pray. God willing, when dawn comes, your tato will find his way home to us for the _Velja Dan_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Despite the Polish half of my heritage, almost everything I know about Slavic languages, mythology, folklore and festivals, I learned from the internet. I filled in the gaps with my experience of Día de Muertos, and how it has become entwined with Catholic ritual. Hopefully I haven't offended anyone in the process. Please feel free to correct me if I have misstepped!


End file.
